


Strange Vikings

by Damonicus



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Celts, F/M, Magic, Scandinavia, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 02:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16007981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damonicus/pseuds/Damonicus
Summary: A Celtic chieftain and his small entourage have returned with Norse explorers to the town of Bresingard, where they find themselves in the position to help the local Viking chieftain with the recent increase in monster sightings. But monsters might be easier to deal with when compared to the growing attraction between the Celtic chieftain Bog and the Norse chieftain's eldest daughter, Marianne.





	1. First Introductions

The fog of morning had yet to clear and the smells of midday meals were drifting through the air to make Marianne's stomach growl. She had eaten only a few bites at breakfast, eager to get out of her father's longhouse and check the traps she had set the day before. It was nearly noon and she was wandering along a narrow path by the bay as she walked by the turf roof home of one of the shepherds, old Bjorfen. The old man's lazy cat was draped across a short legged stool that sat beside the front door; the gray beast raised its head an inch to peer at her with yellow eyes for a moment before its head flopped back down, a nap more important than the possibility of being petted. 

Marianne smirked at the cat. Maybe its luck would be better than hers. Out of nine traps, she had caught only a tiny red squirrel that she had let go. “Learn from this as you grow up, little one,” she had told it as it had scampered away. But she had reset or repositioned her traps and had spent some time looking for feathers for her sister to fletch arrows. Now, with the smell of roasting meat and vegetables reaching her from at least one of the homes that sat down here near the foggy shoreline, Marianne felt her stomach twist in anticipation of being fed. She started to quicken her pace just as she heard a horn sound through the fog. She halted, shared a look with a couple of people who were working outside at the moment with various chores, and looked out over the mist shrouded water. The horn call sounded again, this time with a staccato triple note at the end of its long wail. 

The exploring party had returned! 

Marianne's eyes opened wide as she yelped a cry of excitement and launched into a headlong run along the sandy shore, aiming for the docks. Though they could beach their ships, the explorers—and sometimes raiders—utilized docks when they could. Out along her left, Marianne saw two figures approaching, also at a run. One was a boy of thirteen summers with a shock of white blond hair and eyes so dark that she just thought of them as black. The other figure who materialized from the fog was half a head taller with long blonde hair held in six thick braids, two of which were coiled atop her head. The adolescent girl wore a rich cerulean blue dress adorned with darker blue stitching and silver wave designs along the sleeve ends and hem. With one hand, she held the dress hem just high enough to avoid tripping, while she waved at Marianne with her free hand, laughing the whole way as she and the white haired mischief maker made haste for the dock. Marianne shook her head and growled, “Dawn,” just as she took off too, but she moved further along the shore to trot down an older, somewhat less sturdy-looking dock. 

Within a few more heartbeats, the pale haired pair were at the end of their dock while Marianne's booted feet slammed down on the last plank of the older dock. She threw a smirk at Dawn and the boy as she took a deep breath and waited for the next call. Within a short moment, the horn blast sounded again, but this time it was greeted by a horn call from inland, a series of short blasts, followed by a long, low rumble and then two slightly higher spikes of the horn call. The ship's answering call was clear through the mist and, to anyone native to the town, a clear sign of Helvar Magnuson's unique call. Even though the horn call was that of the skilled explorer and shipwright, the questions that Marianne wanted answered were which dock would be utilized and what had the group of explorers discovered in the eight weeks they had been away from Bresingard. The first question, Marianne knew. 

And a moment later, a shadow loomed in the mist, approached to reveal itself as the scaled, fanged visage of a large wyrm. As the draconic figure approached her position on the dock, she knelt down to grasp a damp metal hook that hung from a nail affixed to a dock support. If the fanged beast had been a real wyrm, Marianne would need more than a simple metal hook to battle the creature, but as it was, the figurehead was another sign of Magnuson's ship. Marianne easily aided in pulling the ship closer so that the ship's crew could tie their vessel off. 

The crew, consisting of nine men and five women (if everything had gone well, at least, that number would be no less) let out hails and shouts at her while she smiled broadly at them and welcomed them home. 

“Blessed are we with the goði's first born welcoming us home after such a time as we've had!” said Elthor Ljotson, his grin—and speech—punctuated with his missing front teeth. “We've some tales to tell, Marianne!” 

“I look forward to it,” Marianne said as she caught a rope tossed to her from a short, stocky warrior, Ulfari Gudmund she recalled. She tied off the prow of the longship as another of the armed explorers jumped to the dock and tied off the aft end. She stepped back to give the returned explorers space to disembark the craft with their gear and, perhaps, loot. 

She glanced to the side as Dawn and her mischievous companion rushed to her side to observe and welcome back the Bresingard explorers. 

“They have anything unusual and interesting?” Dawn asked, her eyes on the men and women as they hefted sturdy leather sacks, bags, and, of course, their weapons. 

Marianne looked at her young sister with one corner of her mouth tilted up in a half-grin. “Probably, but I haven't been here long enough to see. Where've you been?” she added. 

Dawn sniffed and stuck her tongue out at her sister. She swatted at the boy with her when he tugged on Dawn's sleeve; he dropped his hand and waited with the sisters, silent and with wide eyes. 

Helvar Magnuson, the shipwright and owner of the ship, stepped off onto the damp dock and smiled down at Marianne, Dawn, and the boy. Helvar smiled down at most everyone, standing a head taller than most of the warriors of Bresingard and perhaps one of the tallest men in the land. 

“Princesses!” he greeted with a broad smile that broke up the great black bushiness of his beard. Marianne felt her lips begin to twist into a smirk and stopped them; she hated being called a princess, even if that was what she and her sister were. “We have pillaged and plundered with great efficacy and aplomb! Verily, we have returned with enough treasures that we are of generous spirit this day. Perhaps we can find something within our haul that you will find to be fascinating.” 

Marianne laughed at Helvar's words. “Such language you use, Helvar! Are you trying to move in on the business of being a learned skald too? Shipwright, warrior, explorer, and skald?” 

“And don't forget—fantastic lover!” a tall woman bellowed as she dropped over the side of the ship onto the dock next to Helvar. Though shorter than the shipwright, she still reached his shoulder and therefore stood as tall as, or taller than, most of the other men. Like Helvar and most of the explorers, the tall woman wore a fur-lined cape, a heavy woolen shirt, sturdy breeches, leather boots that were tied up to her knees, and was armed with a sword. Her black hair—with a few hints of gray strands here and there--was pulled into two thick braids that fell down either side of her face and were tied off with silver spheres adorned with tiny runes etched into the metal surface. 

“Aye!” agreed Helvar with an over-exaggerated wink at the woman. “My wife speaks the truth of it!” 

Marianne laughed while Dawn giggled and lifted her hands to her cheeks that had suddenly colored a bit. The boy next to her lifted his pales brows in confusion, shrugged, and busied himself with scratching the inside of one of his slightly protruding ears. 

As the explorers hopped, stepped, or staggered off the longship, laden with sacks, bags, and at least a couple of heavy coffers that Marianne could see, she noticed some people she did not recognize. Though they wore cloaks similar to the Norsemen, their clothing beneath, their weapons, and even their hair styles were different. They weren't slaves, obviously, being armed as they were, and her father had firmly suggested to his people (though not outright forbidding) to avoid taking thralls; their journey was meant to be for exploration and finding allies. Perhaps, she thought, they were from a different town or clan and something had happened to their ship. For explorers to meet fellows of their country, kith, and kin was not unheard of, but as Marianne watched the strangers, she decided they were not Norsemen at all. 

A man, fully a head shorter than most of males aboard (and shorter than a few of the women, too) and with skin the color of brown oak leaves, hopped easily off the ship. He wore a colorful array of clothing, from his dark blue and black striped pants, a crimson shirt under a black and silver vest, a deep green cloak, and a lighter blue head wrap. On his belt hung two scabbards, one that held a short, broad bladed sword and another holding a curved dagger. The dark-skinned man flashed Marianne and Dawn a broad smile, revealing the most evenly toothed smile the princesses had seen. He bowed to them and stepped merrily along, following the Magnusons as they strode along the dock to ascend into Bresingard. 

Marianne noted that her sister seemed taken with the dark stranger, though that was not odd in and of itself; Dawn's attractions changed with the phases of the moon. Their father was not concerned with marrying his youngest daughter off so much as he was concerned that the man Dawn married be the one to whom she would want to remain married. Marianne's attention was drawn back to the next three strangers to step off the ship; a homely, but well-armed man with a mop of sandy colored hair; a heavily-built woman with a long brown braid down her back, a large ax strapped to her back, and cerulean colored designs adorning her face and hands; and an aging, diminutive woman with a shock of red-brown frizzy hair, wearing dark furs and with a simple knotwork strip tattoo that ran across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She smiled and nodded at the Bresingard princesses. 

“Don't worry, Marianne,” said Halgerd Rathnir with a wink as she stepped down after the three strangers. The scarred, blonde woman who was one of the best archers in Bresingard, smiled at the sisters and the little boy. “Introductions will be made in your father's hall shortly, when we present our goði with his tribute.” Marianne and Dawn exchanged a glance and then looked back to see the last Norseman step off the ship. That left one stranger who wore a cloak of black and green checkered wool, a sleeveless mail shirt, gray half pants, high soft leather boots, and a simple leather and silver circlet to hold his mop of black hair out of his eyes. His upper lip and chin were shadowed with stubble, but his jawline sported a month's worth of hair growth. Marianne couldn't help but watch with widening eyes as the man rose from his seat and dropped off ship to the dock. The stranger was even taller than Helvar Magnuson! 

Though he was not as heavily-built as many of the Norsemen in Bresingard and other towns beyond, his lean muscles, scars, and the dangerous look in his startling blue eyes spoke of an experienced warrior. Like some of the other outlanders, the tall warrior sported some knotwork tattoos and blue body paint in swirling designs that may have been script, or simply designs; Marianne didn't know which, but she wouldn't mind finding out. She wondered for a moment how many tattoos the man might have underneath his clothing, then blushed at her thoughts. 

He hooked a thumb over his belt, which held a plain leather scabbard. The hilt of the sword at his hip looked to be of masterwork quality; a blue leather wrapped hilt, a broad cross piece (definitely not of Norse design), and a sturdy pommel adorned with a jewel the same bright blue as the man's eyes. The warrior nodded simply to the sisters with an appraising look at them and strode away on his long legs. 

Dawn and Marianne watched the explorers only for a moment, then the blonde princess looked at her sister. “Introductions!” she said excitedly. She and the boy took off after the group, leaving Marianne to stare after them, and in particular, at the tallest man she had ever seen. 

“Well,” she said to herself. “I see they've brought back some interesting treasures.” Then she grinned and followed her sister to properly meet and welcome the strangers. That was a duty as a princess that Marianne could live with, especially today.


	2. Strangers in a Familiar Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Celtic/Gael strangers officially meet the King and Princesses of Bresingard.

Chapter 2wo

Bresingard sat at the most accessible bay side beach for over a fifteen league stretch along the western coast. From the small bay that opened out onto the ocean, the land sloped upward in a gentle incline from the water's edge. Most of the Bresingr folk lived in turf houses that allowed them to remain warm during the brutal winters and cool during the summers; though it was a rare summer day in which the folk felt warm enough to roll up sleeves or wander about without boots or shoes. Some of the Bresingr chose to build their homes completely above ground though, utilizing the same techniques as those used in building turf houses. Those houses—far fewer in number than the older style abodes—were simply built on the ground rather than a few feet deep, and some had chosen to make use of wooden shingles for roofs, though that style required more maintenance and care. 

As the newly returned group made its way through the town, accompanied by the princesses and the white-haired boy, they were greeted by the townsfolk. The strangers marched along with their Bresingr companions in silence, but with open and discerning eyes. Marianne had moved quickly to catch up with the group and soon walked beside the Magnusons. She burned with many questions, but chose to simply say, “Where are our new friends from?” 

Helvar shared a look and a smile with his wife as a grin showed from within his heavy facial hair. “Ah, that would be for their telling, I believe, my princess,” he explained. “But I can tell you that their chieftain—the man the height of a giant back there—is a demon with that blade of his. Slew three Saxons with one sweep of his blade, saw it myself the first day we encountered his people.” Marianne's eyebrows lifted a fraction. She was accustomed to some embellishment from the explorers, but she wondered if Helvar spoke truly. 

Helvar's wife, Sida, nodded sagely at her husband's claim. “He did that and more, fighting with his Dane allies against the Saxons. I'm of the opinion that the Celt chieftain will be a formidable ally to us.” 

They walked by a large round building with four wide, open doors facing the cardinal directions. A blazing furnace sat in its center, easily visible and tended to by a man of average height, short blond hair, a clean shaven face, and arms so thick that his forearms were probably as stout as any Bresingr male's legs. The blacksmith currently stood at the bellows, carefully watching the red coals and some long piece of metal that rested within the furious heat. Dawn tilted her head to the side and asked, “Celt...do you mean Celtic, Helvar?” 

The heavily bearded explorer chuckled and nodded. “Yes indeed, little princess! They call themselves Celts, the Celtic people, and other names I've not the mouth or head to say, though they've mentioned it a few times to me. Their tongue,” he leaned closer as they walked, as if he were sharing some bit of dangerous or sordid information, “is not the easiest to learn and I thought that Latin learned from that merchant a few years back was bad!” Sida shook her head. “Phagh, you only had him teach you how to curse and ask where the mead is.” Helvar shot his wife a wink and added, “Don't forget about the sex words, my love. I know every body part in Latin.” 

Dawn's cheeks flushed red, but she turned to Marianne with a curious expression. “Our father is named after a Celtic warrior said to be an ancestor, right?” 

Marianne smirked. “Oh, you do listen to the lessons, after all.” Dawn stuck her tongue out at Marianne in response to the jibe and looked away from her sister. But the revelation of the strangers' origins were indeed interesting. Celtic folk had sometimes been found wandering through the lands, usually travelling with other Norsemen, Danes, or as thralls to those travellers. * 

The sisters moved to the front of the procession to lead the explorers and their guests to Krigershall, the central and largest building in Bresingard. Unlike most of the buildings in the town, the structure that served as the king's political seat, mead hall, and temple to the gods did not sit partially below ground. The lower section of its walls were of well-laid pale stone, built at least a head taller than Helvar stood before they gave way to heavy, dark timbers polished and carved with intricate knotwork, from simple triskelion and line designs to depictions of the gods, giants, and the flora and fauna of the Norse people. A broad overhang ran around all four sides of the entire structure, held up by grooved pillars of wood, each of them etched with runes that detailed the exploits of the kings and queens and heroes of Bresingard. Some space still remained on some of those pillars, enough for more tales to be told, and perhaps a tale or two for a princess who sought some glory and honor for her family yet. 

The heavy, iron banded doors of Krigershall were currently shut, though the smoke that emitted from four wind eyes indicated that a fire burned within the large structure. Marianne glanced sideways at her younger sister, met her gaze, and narrowed her eyes. Dawn began to step between the entry pillars that stood on either side of the entry doors to the hall, but Marianne was faster. With a smirk on her lips at Dawn--who stuck her tongue out at the elder princess and wrinkled her nose—Marianne placed both palms on the doors into Krigershall and gave a firm shove. With barely a creak of the large iron hinges, the heavy wooden portals swung open to reveal the center of Bresingard and the seat of the land's king. 

“Konungr Dagda of Sygnafylki!” The rich tone of the elder princess's voice rang out through the large hall and drew the attention of the people within. “Your expedition returns with treasure and friends!” Marianne threw a glance over her shoulder at her sister and Helvar, both of whom appeared to pout just a bit that they did not have the opportunity to speak to their king first. Privilege of the first born, Marianne thought with a sly grin just as her eyes caught those of the Celtic chieftain. She blinked as she stepped aside to allow everyone inside. As the procession filed into Krigershall, Marianne barely noticed that their group had picked up a number of Bresingard's folk who were curious to learn of the expedition's discoveries and of the handful of strangers who now walked into the seat of power in the small kingdom of Sygnafylki. Dawn glanced sideways at her sister, then back at where—or at whom—her sister was distracted by, grinned, and decided to take over leading the group of people into the hall. 

Marianne held her breath as the Celtic chieftain stepped by her; this close, the princess realized that the top of her head barely reached the man's chest, maybe not even quite that. She would have to stand next to him to determine that accurately, but then she gave herself a little shake to get that thought out of her head. She did not imagine such things, especially not after the problems she had encountered with the Roman traveller who had arrived in Sygnifylki last year with a priest of a foreign god. 

Marianne stepped away from the open doorway, noting that a number of Bresing folk milled around outside, though close enough to overhear and see the events within the king's hall. Dawn had led the group up the two steps that stretched the entire width of the hall and into the center of the hall the move around the central fire pit and come to a halt before a long table that sat at the foot of the three steps that led up to the king's throne. The table sat so that the handpicked of Konungr—king--Dagda could sit and face everyone else in the hall. Marianne, Dawn, and a few others often sat at the table during feasts, celebrations, or when visitors or the subjects of the land came to speak with the king and his kin. Marianne made her way to the table to take her seat to the right of the chair where her father sat when eating, pointedly ignoring two people who already sat at the table. A glance at her father's face revealed nothing of his thoughts as he watched and listened patiently. In a rush, the slim white-haired boy took a seat just to Marianne's right and sat forward with his arms on the table, his chin resting on his arms as he watched the proceedings with wide eyes. 

With a faint smile on her face, the elder princess turned her attention back to Dawn, who had just finished with her overly dramatic tale of the journey from the dock to the hall. She had to give it to her sister—the girl had no fear in front of people, strangers or not. Dawn moved to take her seat on the left side of their father's table seat, throwing a glance over her shoulder at their father on his throne. 

“Welcome into my house and my kingdom,” intoned King Dagda gravely, his deep voice resonating through the hall despite the fact that he seemed to speak quietly. “Herein, you are my vassals, my kin, or my friends. Eat, drink, and let us be known to one another under the eyes of the gods.” With that, the aging, yet still strong monarch rose from his throne to descend the few steps to take his seat at the table between his daughters. As a sign of trust, he had left Glimmerfell, his great black bladed sword, resting in its scabbard against the left arm of his throne. 

When the king of Sygnifylki sat down, Helvar stepped forward and inclined his head to the man to whom he had sworn allegiance in blood and soil and beside whom he had fought on many occasions. “My konungr,” the tall explorer began. “It is good to see you again after so many days away from our home!” 

“And it is good to see you, blood brother,” said Dagda, the first sign of a smile on his gray bearded face. “Come then, tell me what you have seen, then we shall eat and drink and hear of the exploits of the lot of you!” 

Helvar bobbed his head with a broad smile as he turned to the strangers who had accompanied them. “Before we take our seats, my king—allow me to introduce to you our new friends.” With a nod to Dagda and his two daughters, the tall explorer turned and said something quietly to the foreigners. The Norse folk parted enough to make way for the outlanders to step forward so that they could be seen by the king. 

“My king, this is...” Helvar's brow furrowed and he leaned a few inches closer to the tallest man in the hall, who quietly said something under his breath to the second tallest man. “Ah, ceann-cinnidh Bogdain Strang. Righ Dal Riata.” A few brows rose in question at the strange words that the famous shipwright and explorer had just uttered. When the tall foreigner noted the confused expressions on the faces of the Norse gathered around, he cleared his throat quietly and said in a heavily accented voice, “Chieftain Bogdain of Lorn at your service Konungr Dagda.” The king of Bresingard nodded. The man appeared capable, was certainly an imposing individual; he wondered if the foreign chieftain held any giant blood in his background. 

Bogdain continued with a gesture to each of his people in turn. “Griselda Strang mac Loairn, my mother and queen of Lorn.” The short woman with a mass of auburn curls held atop her head with a few black and green ribbons stepped forward with a nod of her head to the king, who in turn leaned forward on his rune engraven seat and nodded his head to the queen. Although she was of an age to be the mother of the tall chieftain, a youthful glint lit her blue-green eyes and a hint of smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Marianne thought that the queen must have a mischievous streak and then wondered if her dour faced son hid any mischief making. 

“Thangol of Mar, known as Thang the Quick.” The sandy haired man stepped forward to stand next to his chieftain and bowed at the waist to the king. “Hrodwyna of Strachan, the Bear.” The muscled, fur bedecked woman with as much blue paint and tattoos showing as her pale skin, stepped next to Thangol. She did not stand much taller than the light haired man, but her presence was hulking. Her demeanor, her gaze, and her posture veritably shouted impending violence on her enemies. All of the strangers were armed, but the Bear carried more weapons than the rest and she appeared to know how to use them. Marianne felt her eyebrows lift a fraction and wished that she could evoke such a reaction in others—at least when she wanted to. The berserker princess, that is what Dawn had called her when they were children and Marianne and Dawn had pretended to battle against imaginary trolls, giants, and dark alfar. 

“Ravi of the Sky People,” Bogdain introduced the last member of their small group, the diminutive man whose rich, brown skin marked him as a man from further abroad than any of the others here. “My translator and a sage of some...” The chieftain frowned and leaned over to whisper something to Ravi, who whispered a reply. “...sage and storyteller of repute.” Ravi bowed low to the Norse king with a flourish of his arms, his head wrap remaining in place as if it were pinned to his head. 

“Welcome, each of you, and especially to you Chief Bogdain,” Dagda said with a smile tugging at his bearded face. “You are my guests here in Bresingard, in honor, and you may enjoy my hospitality for as long as you care. 

“These are my daughters, Marianne and Dawn, ladies of honor and grace.” Dagda looked at his offspring and winked at them. “Which means they must take after their mother.” 

The strangers from across the sea nodded or bowed as was befitting of their station, though Marianne (and her sister) noticed that the impossibly tall chieftain kept his piercing blue gaze on the eldest princess for a few heartbeats longer than simple curiosity called for. Dawn shot a sidelong look at her sister and pressed her lips together against a giggle. 

Helvar next made a great show of revealing what treasures had been 'acquired' while he and his group had been abroad, exploring and making allies. They had returned with coffers full of silver and gold coins, jewelry, various pieces of art, from golden platters and goblets decorated with rare jewels to a silver gilt tome containing superb illuminations and fantastical stories penned by foreign scribes. In addition to the precious metals and jewels, the tall chieftain of Lorn stepped forward to present a blade to the king of Sygnifylki. Sheathed in a steel scabbard wrapped in deep, dark brown velvet with a silver cap at its tip and coils of stirling wending around it from end to end, the scabbard was obviously of fine quality. Like Bogdain's blade, the hilt was wrapped in fine, blue leather, but the blade was fully a hand longer than his and whereas Bogdain's pommel was set with a brilliant blue stone, pommel of the gift blade for Dagda was a steel caged diamond the size of a large acorn. The king stood up to take the offered gift with a deep nod to Bogdain across the table. As the chieftain stepped back to stand easily with his people and by Helvar, Dagda slowly drew the sword and failed to keep his expression impassive. 

With a silver gleam in the light, the blade was long, sharp, and intricately engraved with designs that looked to be an amalgamation of Norse and Celt markings, with a heavy emphasis on draconic icons. Its edge, he discerned with a keen eye, was sharp and deadly. Its balance was shockingly appropriate for his hand, as if it had been made for him by a smith who must have known exactly how he handled a sword. This was truly a gift worthy of a king, he realized, and more than balanced his offer of hospitality. Inwardly, he wondered if such a gift was given to anyone that the chieftain of Lorn met, or if Helvar had—as the big man was wont to do—had played up Dagda's importance and prominence more than was even close to believable. Regardless, the king wanted parity in the exchange, as was only honorable. 

“My thanks, Chief Bogdain,” Dagda said gravely, though a smile played at his lips as he sheated the exquisite blade and set it down on the table between himself and Marianne, who had appraised the blade as a lovely piece of craftsmanship, but perhaps a bit too...decorated...for her tastes. It would be murder to clean the blood out of all those engravings, she thought with a wry smirk that she hid quickly. 

“Please, sit at the table on my right, a place of honor for you and your kin. And please, though this gift is great, grant us the boon of a story, to tell us more about yourselves and where you come from. We would know you and seeking knowledge is good on any day.” Dagda sat down with an open handed gesture to the long table to the right that made up one side of the “U” shape that all three long tables made in the hall. 

“Yes, a place of honor for those who've not shown anything to us except their dirty furs, heathen skin markings, and accents that grate against the ears,” a voice spoke up from not far away from the king and his daughters. Marianne closed her eyes for a moment, took a breath, and bit back the retort she wanted to spit out. 

Helvar's brows knitted together so quickly, it looked almost painful. His wife's reaction was simply to flare her nostrils in irritation, but she laid a hand on her husband's arm, calming him with her touch. The white-haired boy in the rafters inhaled sharply, his strange eyes wide as he looked down on the assembled people. Bogdain, who had been in midstep on his way to the offered table, halted and slowly turned to see who had just spoken such words to him and his people. 

Emerging from the shadows behind the king's throne were three men. One wore black robes with the hood up to frame his aging, bearded face, a simple colorless leather belt, and a silver chain around his neck, from which hung a cross symbol that was familiar to the Celt chieftain. Another was dressed like the Bresing folk in sturdy, plain clothing, had opted for close shorn hair, and also wore a necklace holding a cross. The third man, standing in between the other two, was half a head taller than them with shoulder length, straight blond hair, dark green eyes, a light honey tan, and wore a set of silver and gold colored scale armor, a red skirt over light breeches, and an eagle insignia on the chest that was also familiar to the Celts and Ravi. Hrodwyna started to move for the blond man, but Bogdain held his arm out in front of her to forestall violence. Marianne saw the look on the big woman's face and was certain she did not want the tattooed warrior angry with her. 

“Tell me,” the blond said with undisguised scorn in his tone and disgust marring his chiseled features. “What is the difference between a Pict woman and a rat whore? A rat is more chaste.” At this, the chieftain had to turn and put both of his hands on Hrodwyna's shoulders to keep her from charging the blond. Her chieftain spoke to her quickly—as she pushed him a half-pace backwards—and in their native tongue for a moment before she nodded and then turned what actually looked like a smile towards the blond warrior. It was not a smile, Marianne decided, that invited pleasant thoughts. 

“Enough, Roland!” King Dagda said firmly. “These are my guests, as are you, I'll have you remember.” 

The blond nodded with closed eyes to the king, then opened his green eyes again to smile with something just a little less than a sneer at the strangers. “Of course, Konungr Dagda. Forgive me—I was simply overcome with worry that your court had been infiltrated by such, 'hem, foreign folk as we see before us. Their kind are known to me.” 

“As are yours to us, Roman,” Bogdain said evenly, his expression flat, though his eyes glittered fiercely. 

“I think,” said Marianne, a little surprised at herself in taking the initiative. “That we are ready to hear what you have to tell us about yourselves.” She smiled as genuinely at the Celt chieftain as she could, which was not difficult, she found. 

“As you wish, Princess,” Bogdain said with a nod to her. 

Marianne's pulse sped up and she caught her breath. Something in his voice and in the look he just gave her—oh, she wanted to know this foreign chieftain much better.


End file.
